<![CDATA[Contact - Blog]]>Wed, 21 Feb 2024 00:42:45 -0800Weebly<![CDATA[On Disciplne]]>Sun, 09 Feb 2020 12:31:34 GMThttp://robertdaleyauthor.com/blog/on-disciplneI curse my Fordham-Jesuit education every day for the blinders it imposed, and for all we did not have time to learn because we were kept so busy on religion. But they did teach discipline, fierce discipline, because of which I was able to live life, make a life, as a free lance: 12 non fiction books, 18 novels, one book of poetry and God knows how many magazine articles. Taught the most rigid principles of ethics also: what is right and what is wrong. For instance, if one applies these principles to today's world, lying is everywhere and always ugly, reprehensible. Habitual lying can never be acceptable, can never be condoned, on any grounds, not ever.                                                                 On balance a successful education, I suppose. 
]]><![CDATA[unhappy days]]>Tue, 28 Jan 2020 19:41:09 GMThttp://robertdaleyauthor.com/blog/unhappy-daysI am depressed, suffering, and the reason is Trump. A general overall depression caused not so much by the awful man himself as by the 53 republican senators who pretend they don't see him as awful, who seem sure to let him get away with it all rather than risk losing the votes of his followers. Perhaps one can accept Trump as a crippled human being and hardly responsible for his awfulness. But how do you accept those 53 other people, his enablers, supposedly upstanding senators, pretending to be role models for us all. 
 
This is my country we are talking about. Impossible for me to concentrate on anything else. We spend six or eight hours a day glued to the impeachment trial, starting with the New York Times each morning, then the TV. Ordinary chores lie there undone. Can't make myself answer the mail. Can't read a book--the words mean nothing to me. I've been trying to write a new poem for weeks, it might get me out of my depression, but nothing comes, and after a short while each day I give up and go downstairs and watch the ​trial on ​TV again--frustrated hours focused on the lying four-flusher who is our president, plus his "noble"enablers who are perhaps even worse. My poor country.
 
Where is the good life we lived on the Cote d'Azur? How I envy our friends there, the travels they take around southern France and elsewhere, the life they live far from here.​ Life outside the reach of American TV.​ People have been bitching to me for years about France's problems, France's politicians. I always gave the same answer: France's problems may be bad but they are not in the same league as ours. Especially now.

We have the painters in the house. What a mess. You can imagine. Otherwise we are both in good shape physically.

But then there is Trump......



]]><![CDATA[Literarily Speaking]]>Wed, 11 Dec 2019 08:00:00 GMThttp://robertdaleyauthor.com/blog/literarily-speakingA meager year, literarily speaking. Total output: 5 poems, about 100 lines in all. Here is the fifth of them. As always I had no idea as I worked it over and over, whether it was any good or not.
   
          SAFETY FIRST
The classic lure
Man's eternal quest
How to feel secure
No one ever knows what path is best

There are those who mostly stay home
It can be unsafe to roam
The light might fail
The train derail
The untoward strike
The ice is always thinner than they'd like
Life seems an ambush surrounded by confusion
Safety, they hold, is an illusion
Voices nearby may urge full speed ahead
They stick to their sensible plan instead

Others never stop glancing around
Searching for excitement, surprise
Treasure to dazzle the eyes
Searching wherever the new might be found
This can entail a certain risk
A bit of danger to make life brisk
Never mind the bill
Beyond the next hill
May lie riches untold
Be bold
Ignore all fears
Safety happens between the ears
It's almost a dare
Pay the fare
Something splendid awaits you out there

​                                        Robert Daley
                                        December 2019]]><![CDATA[Andre Daguin]]>Fri, 06 Dec 2019 08:00:00 GMThttp://robertdaleyauthor.com/blog/andre-daguin4085988​Andre Daguin, 84, possibly the most famous of the great French chefs, died two days ago in his apartment in Auch in the southwest. He gave me a part of himself and a part of France I could have got in no other way. Ours may have seemed an unlikely friendship but it lasted 50 years, and I am bereft. I have been trying to write about him for two days, and this is the best I can do for now.
 
]]><![CDATA[A Wedding]]>Fri, 11 Oct 2019 07:00:00 GMThttp://robertdaleyauthor.com/blog/a-wedding​We are now back home after 8 days in California for the wedding of our granddaughter Galen McNeil to her college boyfriend, whose name is Connor Pierson. They have been together since Stanford where they met. A long enough time. Both are 29. They got married in a rather sumptuous garden in Malibu on the edge of the sea. Three days of celebrations. About 150 guests, more than half of them being Daleys or Piersons. I've never felt so "family", the warmth, the weight, the security of each other. We sat with the groom's parents at the wedding dinner, and at the dinner the night before with the grandparents. Grandpa is a former pastor and he performed the ceremony. I felt like the patriarch through all this, and I suppose I was. Older than the white haired grandfather, anyway, for I asked him.
We had a hotel room overlooking the beach at Santa Monica. Widest beach I've ever seen. At least 300 yards of sand stretching from the road to the Pacific. Warm and sunny throughout. The water much too cold for swimming, but my brother in law, Paul Fennelly, tried it and both his hearing aids popped out and were lost.
 
For us the second wedding of the year. Her older sister Avery was married in June. Very happy year for the grandparents, but a bit of a strain here and there. A bit costly too.
 
Other than that, nothing much to report. That's enough, I guess.
]]><![CDATA[A Too Steep Staircase]]>Sat, 03 Aug 2019 07:00:00 GMThttp://robertdaleyauthor.com/blog/andre-daguin
​Still in my pajamas I fell down the stairs backwards from four or five steps up, and was in the hospital most of last week. This happened in our lake house. I had a bag of garbage slung over my shoulder and was making for the upstairs door which exits closer to the parking lot. Perhaps I lost control of the sack, or of one of my slippers. Lost control of my balance in any case. Landed with a terrific crash. The result was a compressed fracture of the t-9 vertibra. It will heal by itself--in time, but we are out of circulation for the moment. I could regale you with the details but they are boring. It takes two to three months for this injury to heal itself, maybe longer.
I swear to you that during the instant I was in the air the following thought passed through my head: A fall will probably be what kills me, is this the one?
No, not yet

​
]]><![CDATA[Perhaps For Good]]>Thu, 04 Apr 2019 07:00:00 GMThttp://robertdaleyauthor.com/blog/perhaps-for-goodAnd so we leave La Belle France, leave Nice, where we have lived at least half of every year for most of our adult lives.  Our apartment is empty, every room cleaned out, our furniture and now us en route to America--perhaps never to return. Never? A logical thought at the ages we have reached: in a month's time I will be 89 years old, Peggy only a year less. Talk about heavy hearts. Her's more than mine, I suppose, though mine too. She was born here, started school here, had her first heartthrobs here. I came as a 23 year old would-be writer following in the footsteps of Fitzgerald and Hemingway, my idols at the time, and I met her the afternoon of the first day. Three months later on no money we married here, and sailed back to America for the first time. A few years after that, having landed a job with the New York Times, only a sort of a job at first, we moved back to Nice with our two little girls, and my literary career at last took root. In a very real sense it was in Nice that I became a man. 
 
In France the elevators are all minuscule. When furniture goes in or out, the movers lean a derrick against the building up as high as the balcony, in our case six flights up, then hoist a platform up the derrick. The furniture goes out onto the balcony, gets lifted onto the platform, and is lowered to the van. And so, for as long as there was something to sit on, we sat there and watched what seemed like our whole lives go out the window.
 
Perhaps I will try to write more about Nice, leaving Nice, tomorrow. The jumble of emotions. But that's all I can do for now.

]]><![CDATA[GOING MY WAY]]>Mon, 17 Dec 2018 20:44:34 GMThttp://robertdaleyauthor.com/blog/going-my-wayDoes anyone ever talk about, or even think about GOING MY WAY anymore? This was the most monumental film of my boyhood, and also of its time. Bing Crosby playing a priest. Won colossal box office receipts plus all seven of the principal Oscars in 1944. Crosby was already king of the world by then. Even the Oscar for best actor couldn't much increase his splendor, but the film could and did almost smother him under vast heapings of additional, unconditional love.
Because I have been reading about all this in SWINGING ON A STAR, the second volume of Gary Giddens excellent biography of Crosby and his times. I got more and more curious. There were many fascinating pages on GOING MY WAY from concept to screen, including the belief by all involved that they were making a great, great movie. Finally curiosity got the better of me, and last night I called up the film on Amazon Prime. Paid $3.98 for it.
What schmaltz. Pure cornball from beginning to end. Every scene so obvious, so fraudulent I almost felt embarrassed for all those people. I didn't note any acting on Crosby's part. Seemed to me he just walked through it playing Bing Crosby. 
How times--and perceptions--do change. Seventy four years ago it would have been hard to find anyone who didn't come out of the theater with tears in his eyes, who didn't agree with the makers: a great, great movie. And, seventy four years ago Bing Crosby was possibly the most famous face and voice in the world, and certainly the most famous entertainer. Perhaps I should remind you of all that too.
 
]]><![CDATA[Writer's Block]]>Thu, 29 Nov 2018 16:48:27 GMThttp://robertdaleyauthor.com/blog/writers-block    I was a professional writer for over 50 years, during which time I heard much about "writer's block". I wrote 30 books. I wrote as well dozens of articles for most of the major American magazines. The day after I finished one project I would start another. A writer is a workman like any other I would say, if asked. He must make a living every day. Writer's block, whatever it might be, was for other writers, not me. 
     And then--
    I had begun to write poems on the side. Last winter I saw that I now had 33 poems written over the past eight years. They would make a slim volume--about 90 pages, I judged. I wanted to show them around, as any writer would, but how, where? Offer them to a commercial house? Never occurred to me. Every book is an investment by the publisher, each one a gamble. Publishers bet on sure things, or almost sure things. None was likely to bet on the verses of an 87 year old unpublished poet like me.
    So I published them myself. They're on sale at Amazon at $3.99. When the author's copies came I was as elated as always in the past. Once again The Word had been made Flesh. I sniffed the new book, rifled the pages, read and admired one or two of the poems. And, for some seconds, admired myself.
    The next day I sat down to write another poem. But nothing came. Not a word.
    Nor the next day
    Nor the next.
    This went on for eight months. Writer's block indeed. In the past I never felt pity for all those other poor slobs. Now at last I did.
    At the end of all those weeks, words began to come. Finally. And I wrote a poem called "Nostalgia" which follows. I offer it to you. If it's lousy, please tell me. I'll accept praise too. 
 
       Nostalgia
The half forgotten moment 
That fills the head unbidden
Former time and place
Vivid trace
The rest hidden
A distorted view
The world askew
 
Nostalgia
When singers sang truer 
Honey was sweeter 
Boxers hit harder
The world in past tense
A world that seems to have made more sense
Some prefer it 
The past crowds their pockets
Fingers sift it like coins
 
Others abhor the nostalgic song
The past to them was long
Hills were steeper
Nights darker
Pain deeper
More like a bombed out house 
Open to the rains
Nothing fond remains
 
Nostalgia
A private museum 
A row of cases 
Forgotten faces 
Memories on display. The past under glass
All this did come to pass
Can't be judged
Glass too smudged 
Can barely see inside
A life that long ago died
Or so you can claim
 
Nostalgia
Has been called a mystic cloud 
As enveloping as a shroud
A dangerous place
Can erase 
Misplace
Deface 
Disgrace
It's like unveiling a statue
An over the shoulder view
What you see depends on you. 
A mood
Can create hunger, but leaves behind no food
A seductive liar 
No emotion it can't mime
I didn't get it right back then
Maybe this time
 
Nostalgia is an illusion
Leads only to confusion
Better to count what can be counted 
Money earned
Lessons learned
Shine up any trophies won
Measure what can be measured and you're done
The rest is not real
                                      Robert Daley
                                      Nov. 2018
 
    With Nostalgia out of the way, I sat down to start another new poem, but nothing came. Not an idea, line, word. Day after the same. It's been 3 weeks now. Writer's Block was back. Hello again Writer's Block.
 
]]><![CDATA[Again To Nice]]>Sat, 17 Mar 2018 07:00:00 GMThttp://robertdaleyauthor.com/blog/march-19th-2018​And so, again, to Nice. We've been here four days this time and will stay till June. To come into these streets is always a kind of homecoming to me. A vivid experience still. I was 23 the first time, an ignorant, naive boy, stepping out into the rest of the world for the first time, and I was instantly dazzled by what I found here--a girl of course, but much much else, places and people, an entire way of life that I had not known existed. Later I worked for the New York Times here, and later still I wrote many books and articles rooted in Nice or in surrounding France. All that is over, I have become strictly a poet now, if I am anything classifiable, it is harder to do and pays nothing, but we still come here twice each year for three months each time, the girl and I, her home town and mine too in a way. Which makes for an expensive and frenetic life style that people, scratching their heads, often ask us about. Are there not problems? Of course there are, each time problems. The money, of course, the jet lag. Also, if you abandon any home for three months there will be technical problems to cope with when you come back. This time we found TV and internet kaput. We were four days without, grumbling the whole time, getting more and more frantic. Guy came this morning. Couldn't have been nicer. Fixed it in a trice. Which is why you are reading these lines now and not four days ago.



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